


Of Mice and Men

by anno_Hreog



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anno_Hreog/pseuds/anno_Hreog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Harry is left with a rat by the name of Peter Pettigrew. If only Draco Malfoy didn't object. An unLove Story.</p><p> </p><p>[Written in 2005, before <i>The Half Blood Prince</i> came out.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Mice and Men

Of Mice and Men

Harry was not entirely surprised when Peter Pettigrew saved his life. After all, the niggling idea of the wizard’s debt had been prowling at the back of his mind, disturbing his subconscious for years. This man, this horrible, cowardly, grotesque man, who’d betrayed his parents, who’d consigned Sirius to twelve years in Azkaban prison, who crawled before Voldemort, owed him a life debt, and Harry had been loathe to consider what that would entail. 

So, when Pettigrew transformed into a rat and bit Lord Voldemort’s ankle, seconds before the dark wizard could deliver the killing curse at Harry, Harry had almost been expecting something of the sort.

In the impossibly slow moments following, as Lord Voldemort let out an unseemly – and un _darklordly_ – yelp and hopped on his good foot, Harry reached for the heavy crystal goblet of Hufflepuff and smashed it down on Slytherin’s locket. Every head in the Ministry of Magic turned as the high pitched wail of Lord Voldemort arose with the swirl of magic and soul and dust around the shattered trinkets.

No one noticed until much later, after they swept up the broken glass and carted away the ruins of the hideous statue in the fountain that no one really liked, that the rat with the silver paw remained a rat.

* * *

“You know,” Harry said. “Awards used to mean something. The House Cup, the Quidditch Cup, that sort of thing… ” He fiddled with the broken seal on his gilt edged invitation. “Now it seems ridiculous… I mean… Order of Merlin? Says who? Scrimgeour?” 

A non-committal grunt came from the direction of the open closet. The clash of orange robes and purple plaid trousers identified Ron Weasley, who had been throwing out junk wands and broken Quidditch figurines for about an hour.

“Huh? Yeah, Harry, sure,” he replied absently. His old maroon dress robes flew over Harry’s head and landed in a heap on the floor. 

“Were they part of the battle? What does Scrimgeour know about going up against Voldemort?”

“Uh-huh,” Ron mumbled. He no longer flinched at the name. “Right.”

“Who decides who the heroes are? Who decides what deserves a medal?” It ended in a decidedly unheroic whine. 

“Right, right. Who cares? You don’t have a date, do you?” Ron emerged from the closet with his orange Cannons shirt. “Ah- hah! Still got it!”

“That’s not it! It’s not that I…” Harry picked up Ron’s old dress robes and started folding them. “You’re not upset, are you? I mean, Ginny and I…”

“What? Didn’t you guys go out twice or something five months ago?” Ron pulled the orange shirt over his head. 

“Yeah, well, and I …”

“So, what’s the big deal? Ginny’s dating Dean again. What do you think? It still fits, right?” The shirt strained against Ron’s older, grown-up chest. Harry wondered if magic buttons popped when they were pulled too tight. He tried not to stare at Ron’s rather muscular chest. Ron was his best friend, his closest friend, like a brother to him, boyfriend of Hermione who would make sure Harry sang in a higher key if he even.... Right…

“Uh… maybe we can stop by Quality Quidditch Supplies today,” Harry said gently as he placed the old maroon robe on top of Ron’s worn quilt. “But that’s not it! Well, not exactly… I mean…” He crumpled the Ministry invitation in his hand. “So I sit at a fancy banquet and nod and grin at the idiots who wouldn’t lift a wand against Voldemort? Who put them at the table? What about the people who actually did something, not just talked about it? What about- ?”

“Harry, mate, calm down.” Ron sat down on the bed next to him. “Just ask the bastard out, will you?”

“I… uh… I… Ron!”

Ron patted him on the back and pulled off his too-tight Cannon’s shirt. 

“You’ve been staring at his prissy arse for two years.” 

“I wasn… uh… you’re not…”

“But do me a favor, okay? As your best friend? Whatever you do with him, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

*

Harry had imagined Muggle laboratories to be sterile white spaces, filled with strange chemical smells. It seemed magical ones weren’t very different. A dozen potions were bubbling in transparent glass beakers, others in cauldrons of various sizes, some shining silver, some dull pewter. Wizards in long white robes and protective goggles and grey dragonskin gloves gaped at him as he made his way across the room. Harry still hadn’t perfected his pleasant but aloof smile. Hermione had told him he’d need a public mask, polite but distant. Like Princess Di. Or maybe the queen mum.

Malfoy’s work desk was in the corner, out of direct sunlight. He was arguing in a low voice with a tall wizard with a shock of spiky bright magenta hair, who was gesticulating wildly back at him. The fumes were particularly noisome around them. Harry contented himself with admiring the perfect fit of Malfoy’s lab robes across his neatly alert shoulders, the dip and slope at the small of his back, even his particular way of standing back and looking down at someone at least a half a foot taller. The thought gave him pause. Harry wondered if he was taller than Malfoy now.

The lab-wizard with the magenta hair threw up his hands. 

“Fine then, if you think Welsh dragon scales will work with this brew,” he said. Malfoy’s eyebrow couldn’t rise any higher without creeping into his hairline. 

“It’s on your head if the whole batch boils over and burns down half the wing,” the magenta-haired wizard muttered under his breath. He nodded stiffly at Harry as he left.

Malfoy’s left eye was a huge shiny green marble through the round glass beaker. He’d always looked odd, too bony, too pale, too thin. 

“Pierson is somewhat doubtful about my methods.” Malfoy’s voice jolted Harry out of his distraction. That smooth white-blond hair was so shiny, not a strand out of place. It must _mean_ something. That he was sly and cold and sneaky. That appearances weren’t everything. That Harry wanted to run his hand through it and see if it felt as soft as it looked.

“Huh?” 

“Nothing that concerns you, hero,” Malfoy said. He sounded amused. Or annoyed. Harry couldn’t quite tell yet. “I suppose you’re here to see the rat?” Malfoy asked.

“What?” Harry had no idea what Malfoy was talking about. He tried to pull his speech together – the one he’d practiced in front of the mirror seventeen times last night. About putting aside their childhood differences, about growing up and gaining perspective, and forging a new path of cooperation in the new era. And wannagotothebanquetwimme, Malfoy? Not like a date or anything. It's at the Ministry.

There was a familiar squeak from under Malfoy’s work desk. Malfoy crawled out from under it with a cage. It was small and rusty, with a yellow plastic wheel in the corner. Food pellets were scattered over a fairly clean newspaper lining the floor of the cage. A fat rat was snoozing under a large wilted lettuce leaf. 

“This is what you’re here for, isn’t it?” Malfoy’s question didn’t sound very questioning. He seemed very sure of himself, for someone who wasn’t going to have a medal pinned on him. 

“What? Who? Is that…?” Harry forgot about his speech for a moment and stared at the rat in the cage. One of its forepaws glinted a sinister silver. 

“Astute as usual, Potter,” Malfoy turned his back on him and started waving a wand over the pewter cauldrons, putting out the tiny blue flames under the glass beakers. He looked ready to leave. Harry tore his attention away from the rat in the cage. 

“What’s _that_ doing here?” He didn’t know whether he should be angry at the man – the rat? – who betrayed his parents and subsequently cost him a happy childhood, or grateful that he helped him defeat Voldemort. By being a dirty, traitorous rat.

He felt queasy. “Shouldn’t it … I mean. Wait, I guess Azkaban is out of the… but… wouldn’t the Ministry want to … no, I suppose not that it’s a…” 

“Well, I’m sure the _Prophet_ would have a field day with that. The Wizengamot putting a rat on trial? What's next? Counseling for depressed hippogriffs?” Malfoy snorted. “Of course,” Malfoy put on a mock thoughtful look. “I suppose they could feed it to Mrs. Norris. Or better yet - McGonagall.” Malfoy’s smirk was just as sharp and nasty has it had been back at Hogwarts. Harry didn't find this attractive now, did he?

“But… he…” Harry had to sit down. Malfoy pulled out a stool for him. Harry didn’t know where to look, what to think. He was defending this gutless _animal_? What about his parents? What about Sirius? What about poor, deceived, disgusted Ron? But no one deserved to die like that, eaten alive by cats! And Pettigrew _had_ tried to make amends at the end. Of a sort. Did that make up for his wrongs? 

“I suppose it’s an embarrassment to the Ministry,” Malfoy said as he put his parchment and quills in his black satchel. “Should they give it a medal? A special rat-sized one? But fooling the Ministry for all those years. Oh no, they couldn’t forgive something like that.” Malfoy shook his head. “No one knew what to do, so Professor Snape palmed it off on me. He said I might want to use it for experiments. But now that you've showed up...” He paused and looked at Harry expectantly for a moment. "Was there anything else, Potter?"

Harry was even more perplexed than when he first walked into the lab. The rat situation had thrown him for a curveball. Why was he here again?

“Well,” Malfoy said in a clipped voice. “Enjoy your rat, Potter.” 

Harry didn’t notice that Malfoy had left until Peter the rat looked up from under the lettuce leaf and squeaked.

* * *

The rusty cage was dented in three places. It was too small and cramped, and it didn’t seem quite right to lock anything up in there, even Peter Pettigrew. He thought of Sirius pacing for years in his dark Azkaban cell and sighed. Where was the justice in that?

Harry bought the biggest cage at the Magical Menagerie. It was four stories high and had walkways that moved on its own, like the staircases in Hogwarts. There were three exercise wheels built into it like an adventure playground. The rat didn’t seem to be very interested in those. It woke up when Harry changed the food and water. Harry fed it a brown grains and fresh vegetables. He wondered if the rat missed things like lasagna and fried chicken. He tried to keep the food interesting.

Harry wasn’t sure what to call the rat. He didn’t want to say Pettigrew. The name was sour on his tongue, and he couldn’t help his face twisting into an angry sneer when he said it. The rat hid under the wood shavings and refused to come out for hours. He didn’t want to call it Peter, either. The name seemed to imply he was ready to be friends with that rodent, and Harry wasn’t sure about that either. 

He decided to call it Scabbers for now.

* * *

Professor McGonagall couldn’t explain it. Scabbers was going to stay Scabbers for a while. It had something to do with the uneven magic around Voldemort when he died, with Scabbers’s teeth sinking in his bony leg – it was strange to think Voldemort had anything as normal as ankles or knees or scabs. But in the end, Scabbers was stuck as a rat. 

Harry was still undecided as to what he thought about that. Was this only fair? A lifetime in the body of a rat? Didn’t he do his bit – Malfoy snorted at this pun; Harry looked at him, confused – to redeem himself? Was Harry to be his gaoler for life? Did he enjoy punishing the rat? 

Malfoy sipped at his coffee. The tea biscuit that came with it was stale, and Potter had been yammering on for an hour about his rat. 

“Mmm hmm,” Malfoy nodded. He wondered if he should pick up the fish or the green curry take-out for dinner. He’d thought Potter would be taking care of that, but it didn’t look like the rat conundrum would be resolved any time soon.

“So, what do you think I should do about this?” Potter asked finally. His bright green eyes were burning with righteous inquiry. The kind of look he’d imagined on Potter’s face, as he _heroically_ tied Draco down to the bedposts and _punished_ him for being a wicked, wicked Slytherin. Over and over and over again. Draco mentally cuffed the head of his daft libido and tried for a casual sort of nod.

“That’s fascinating, Potter. Well, if that’s all…”

Malfoy almost stumbled over his chair in his haste, and walked away from the café and a confused Potter. The lamps were lighting to life against the azure of the early evening sky. If he hurried, he could get the fermented fish soup with his curry before it ran out. And if he smiled his shy, lonely bachelor smile, Mrs. Srisai would wink and add a hard-boiled egg to the curry.

Harry buried his head in his arms. Bringing Scabbers wasn’t quite what he had in mind when he’d scribbled “Potter and _guest_ ” on the R.S.V.P card.

* * *

Scabbers didn’t like dog biscuits. Harry’s ‘rat book’ specifically said that rats needed protein, but Scabbers wouldn’t touch the dog food. Harry didn’t want to starve him to death. He bought some fresh liver and cooked it in tiny strips. He wasn’t sure Scabbers should eat human food in his rat form.

He didn’t play in any of the tubes and tunnels in his ‘playground’ either. Most of the time he slept. Harry thought he looked pensive over his water bowl before he fell in it. Harry scratched his hand in his hurry to lift the wire latch and prevent Scabbers from drowning. Later Harry thought it would have been a fitting end to Pettigrew. And then felt guilty for thinking it. He gave Scabbers some extra cherries that night. Pitted of course, in case he choked.

The minister droned on about the peace and the wizarding way of life forged by fire and courage, while Hermione scoffed at the mixed metaphors. Harry sipped his water and wondered whether Pettigrew was sorry for what he’d done, so many years ago. He had looked droopy this morning and his coat was noticeably dull. Harry didn’t look forward to letting Scabbers out to run about the house like a favored pet, but he didn’t want to be cruel, either. He felt Malfoy’s eyes glancing over at him and turned to smile back at him. Snape was glowering at him from his table, and Harry saw Malfoy lean forward to whisper into Snape’s greasy hair. 

“Harry!” Hermione kicked the back of his chair. “You’re up next!” she whispered loudly. Harry had no control over the flush spreading over his neck and cheeks as he got to his feet. He distinctly heard Snape snort and saw Malfoy patting Snape’s hand in the corner of his eye.

He’d gained his composure again by the time ceremony was over. He nursed his drink and stared at the cheese and fruit spread. Hermione was mingling and chatting with very impressively dressed witches and wizards. Harry smiled weakly when she tried to wave him over. He pushed the grapes and melon slices around his plate and tried to remember the details of Goyle senior’s trial he’d read in _The Prophet_ this morning. Azkaban was a sure thing. He wondered if Pettigrew would have preferred that to the indignity of being Harry’s pet of a sort.

“Brooding alone?” 

Malfoy’s eyes were mocking him over the champagne flute. His soft grey robes looked pale yellow in certain lights. There must be a secret in the weave. Harry suddenly realized he’d been staring too long – and the git’s knowing smirk confirmed it. 

“I… uh…” Harry narrowed his eyes as he remembered. “Lost Snape, have you?” 

“The good professor wasn’t sure of his welcome,” Malfoy said calmly and sipped at his champagne. Harry watched it go down - gulp, gulp – a throb in the taut lines of his pale throat. “It’s best to present a unified front, don’t you think?” 

“Best for what?” Harry grumbled in a sullen voice. Maybe he should have stayed home and cleaned out Scabbers’s cage, after all. Better than the _horseshit_ he had to put up with at this stupid Ministry _farce_ , sucking up and making nice to that _hypocrite_ Rufus Scrimgeour. It was turning his stomach, and he’d much prefer watching a cowardly rat worry over his lettuce than having to stand here and listen to Malfoy drop mysterious hints about what he was doing with _Snape_ and how could that prissy, fastidious git even _stand_ that greasy –

“Oh, you know. A room full of heroes ready to teach a pair of reprobates a lesson. It must be so tempting, don’t you think?” Malfoy bit his bottom lip. “Nothing’s quite as it should be, though, the good and the righteous falling before the drones of bureaucracy. Aren’t you just itching for a naughty scapegoat instead? Take out all your frustrations on some deserving little sinner?”

Was that what he was doing to Pettigrew? Was Harry’s magic somehow _imprisoning_ him in his rat form without a chance to explain or atone for his sins? Was that why he wasn’t eating his fresh vegetables? In fact, Harry was sure Scabbers’s droppings had looked a bit on the watery side this morning. What was Malfoy saying?

Malfoy put down his champagne glass. “Come on, hero. Punish me.”

Probably in the middle of Scrimgeour’s hot air and gasconade, Harry had probably missed the part where the good and the righteous are duly rewarded, despite being complete tongue-tied fools. Evidently his Order of Merlin came with a blond prize at the bottom. Or his bottom.

“Yeah. All right, then.” Harry almost stumbled over his feet. Malfoy’s fingers were impatiently digging into his arm.

“Wait,” Harry stopped him suddenly. Malfoy's eyes glittered. "Yes?"

There was something he had to do. “I want to take some cheese home for Scabbers.” 

"Oh."

* * *

They took the long way home. Which meant Malfoy expertly hailing a Muggle cab. Potter wasn’t too impressed. He didn’t seem to notice at all. His brow was furrowed in worry. 

“Do you think that’s it, then? That he’s hiding again? What does it mean when this world is too rotten even for the likes of him?”

Potter was rambling on nervously. He twitched when Malfoy tried to pat his knee. “I'm sure that’s it, Potter,” Malfoy murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles along the inside of Harry’s thigh. Harry leaned back and closed his eyes. That was more like it. 

“What does he want, anyway?” he said in a choked voice. “What kind of life is that? Is it the right punishment? And who gets to say what’s right? Does his last good deed make up for all he’s done? Is he trying to do that himself? Make amends?”

"Yes, yes, that must be it." Rubbing his hand against Potter’s crotch seemed to shut him up nicely, the slow, soothing circles. Malfoy licked at the tense neck, lapping and sucking him to distraction. “Mmm hmm…”

And the world was a chaos of sensation and heat, mixed in with the thoughts of sick rats in Harry’s head, and Malfoy’s hands and lips and tongue were everywhere and nowhere, in fleeting nips and touches, and this was so wrong, and Harry was taking advantage of him, and he wanted to pin down this snarky bastard and have his way with him over and over and over again until the cold, pretentious git with nary a hair out of place pleaded for mercy, sweaty and disheveled and desperate under him, and he wouldn’t give him any, and give it to him again and again until his strength gave out, and please let it not be any time soon, and did he change the water in Scabbers’s bowl this morning and make sure he threw out the old celery stalks before they got soggy all over the wood shavings?

Harry didn’t realize the cab had stopped in front of Grimmauld Place until the driver knocked on the transparent partition. He fumbled in his pockets for the right number of bills. They smelled of cheese.

* * *

He’d somehow kicked off his shoes, and his shirt must have been _magicked_ off because Harry didn’t remember undoing any buttons – though something hard and plastic hit him on the forehead. And Malfoy certainly was a genius at touching and licking and that delightful squirming and twisting as Harry ground against him. 

“Finally,” Malfoy breathed in his ear, and Harry felt long thin fingers tracing a line down the small of his back, slow and agonizingly light as they parted his arse and _rubbed_ the sensitive, puckered skin –Harry ground down against him, smooth heat slick against smooth heat. Every spare thought in his head melted against the sensation of skin against sleek skin, and his head was filled with nothing but _more more more more_ until he was a mess of nerves ready to be plucked any way which, by those elegant skilled fingers and - 

“Do you think he misses people?” 

“ _What?_ ” Malfoy looked up at him, annoyed or perplexed, Harry wasn’t sure. 

He tried to explain. “I mean, isn’t it the worst part, not being with his own kind?” Harry persisted. Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him. “I mean, he can’t ever have any kind of –er – companionship, not with people. Maybe I could find a nice lady –er, or gentleman – rat to –”

“Potter,” Malfoy’s voice was barely a groan, but he was going for patience. It wasn’t a family trait, so he had to put in extra effort. “Are you talking about that _rat_?” The last part was not as patient as it sounded in his head.

“I… but isn’t it odd, don’t you think? Or maybe he has something else planned all alo-”

Malfoy started counting back from fifty, and stopped at forty-seven. He remembered those five wonderful silk scarves he’d bought, and looked up at the hero who was going to use them on him – even if said hero didn’t know about it yet– and said in what he hoped was a gentle, desire-fueled voice.

“Harry. I. Want. You.” He bucked up for good measure. “Now.”

“Okay,” his forceful hero squeaked. Hands worked just as well on ex-Gryffindor heroes, and this particular hero groaned in his ear as cock rubbed up against cock, and Potter’s hipbones dug into him. So this scrawny hero was going to be a fixer-upper. Malfoy reminded himself it would be worth the effort when he felt Potter’s swirl of magic around them, as Potter humped against him like a randy, needy puppy. Then he heard a squeak.

“Scabbers!” Potter cried out.

“Rat!” Malfoy yelped. 

Two beady little eyes were watching them from the pillows. 

“How did he get out?” Potter jumped off Malfoy – bony knees painfully jabbing into his thighs – and hurried after the rat, who neatly dodged him and scampered off the pillow down the side of the bed. 

“I’ll get him, just wait here!” Potter yelled. 

He could hear Potter knocking over a chair in the kitchen. Malfoy sighed as he pulled on his pants, wearily buttoning his rumpled dress robes. Even taking extra time and lingering, Potter didn't return. Obviously, Potter was already taken. Draco had missed all the signs.

* * *

Harry didn’t notice the front door slamming.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this one was the very last HP fic I ever wrote, and fittingly closed the H/D door all the way back in 2005.
> 
> And there it is, all my old old old HP fic, archived here on Ao3. Except of course, the two long chaptered fics I wrote at the beginning, which were very very H/D, so close to my heart, and not worth re-writing for canon-compliance or beginning writer mistakes after all these years.
> 
> That's all folks. Thanks for all the fish. <333


End file.
